the egg

The Egg.

A tray of eggs, I was making an omelet,
empty shells, no embryos today, called
the dog it was at the garden, had dug itself,
into a hole, there was nothing I could do.

Snow began falling didn’t stop till landscape
was eternally white; a red fox looked cute
but didn’t see the hare till it stirred, drops
of ruby shone warmly on glittering crystals.

Thawing snow on the Russian steppe, there
had been a battle, arms pointing up, like
twigs of dead trees, in need to tell an untold
story of war and eternal suffering.

Under a lone tree, shot many times but still
standing, a red fox sat sniffing the air for
hares, a single shot rolled over landscape
springtime now and man was back in action.